Total pages in book: 18
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 16403 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 82(@200wpm)___ 66(@250wpm)___ 55(@300wpm)
But then I heard Penelope's voice, light and teasing, floating through the doorway like smoke. "Why are you so obsessed with me, Heath?"
The words made my hands still on the spine of whatever book I'd been holding.
And later, another day, when I'd been sorting inventory in the back corner. "You always know where to find me, even when school's out. I don't know if that's sweet or creepy."
That same playful cadence.
I filed those overheard fragments away without meaning to, the way you do with information that hurts but doesn't quite make sense yet. Evidence of something I wasn't supposed to witness. My chest tightened each time, a knot forming that I couldn't name or untangle.
Now I know what it was. Recognition, maybe. The sick understanding that I was hearing pieces of a story I'd never be part of.
Heath had been the golden boy in high school—football star, student body president, the guy every girl noticed and most of them wanted. And Penelope had been his perfect match. Cheerleading captain, homecoming queen, the kind of beautiful that made everyone else disappear by comparison.
Everyone assumed they'd end up together. It was the obvious pairing, the story that wrote itself.
But Penelope had been with Cole Matthews, Heath's best friend, all through junior and senior year. Off-limits in the most fundamental way possible. So Heath couldn't have her. At least that was what the rumors said.
And a boy who can't have the girl he wants doesn't stop wanting her. He just finds someone he can have.
The girl next door. The one who's always around, always available, already halfway in love with him anyway.
The one who's safe.
Penelope was the prize. Penelope was always the prize. And you don't settle for the girl next door when the prize is available.
You settle for her when it isn't.
All those summers, all those careful conversations and shared jokes and moments when I thought maybe, maybe he saw me the way I saw him—I was never the choice. I was the consolation. The backup plan. The girl who was there when the real one wasn't an option.
We never talked about school, Heath and I. Never mentioned the different crowds we ran with, the invisible lines that kept us separate from September to June. Summer was its own world, and in that world, we could pretend that ten months of social geography didn't exist.
But it did exist. Ten years later, I'm watching the proof of it unfold on Gram's lawn.
The worst part is how it reframes everything. Last night in my bed, this morning in mine, all the careful touches and stolen glances I thought meant something.
All of it takes on a different shape now. Not chosen, just available. Not wanted, just willing.
That was why I ran away from him during our last summer together. I thought things were different now. Apparently not.
I turn back toward Heath and Penelope, and that's when I see Heath hug her. His arms wrap around her small waist, her face turned up toward his. And when they pull apart, he smiles at her—soft and genuine and sweet.
The tears come from nowhere, and I have to turn away before anyone sees. My hands shake as I pretend to adjust a flower arrangement, and I realize I need to get away from this lawn, away from the evidence of my own stupidity, before I do something that will make the rest of this weekend unbearable for everyone.
Gram's gift. I still haven't given Gram her birthday present. It's up in the loft, wrapped and waiting, and retrieving it gives me a reason to disappear that doesn't require explanation.
My feet carry me toward the house before my brain fully commits to the plan, but once I'm moving, it becomes the only possible course of action. Get the gift. Pull myself together. Come back down and play the part of the cheerful granddaughter for the rest of the evening.
I can do that. I've been doing it my whole life.
The house feels blessedly cool after the afternoon heat, and the relative quiet is a relief after the chaos of suppliers and setup. But as I head toward the stairs, I pass the guest bedroom on the second floor, and I halt.
The door is fully open, revealing a perfectly made bed and untouched linens.
I stand in the doorway for a long moment, letting the implications settle. The room Gram swore was occupied. The reason I got shunted to the loft with Heath in the first place.
Nobody has been staying here. The bed hasn't been touched. The surfaces are dust-free but clearly unused.
Gram lied.
I continue up to the loft, grab the gift from where I tucked it beside my suitcase, and try to decide how I feel about being manipulated by an eighty-year-old woman.
Angry seems like the obvious choice, but what rises in my throat feels more like gratitude mixed with devastation.